Two Halves Make a Hole
by EquestrianCSI
Summary: Nick and Warrick investigate a brutal stabbing while Grissom and Catherine try to find out why a body is in two pieces at the racing stables. Rated T


'_Two Halves Make a Hole'_

**Chapter 1**

The tree-lined street was quiet as night settled across Las Vegas. Against the inky black sky, a harvest moon hung like a bright glowing pumpkin over the rows of neat ranch-style houses lining the darkened streets. Lights glowed in the windows of the brick four bedroom house on the corner. Halloween was just around the corner, and the home was decorated with orange lights and paper ghosts hanging from the trees. The garage door was open, and a dog could be heard barking frantically from inside the house as the interior door flew open and a man ran out, waving a shotgun in the air.

Nick Stokes pulled his Denali into the drive and shut off the motor. Warrick Brown peered through the windscreen at the distraught figure before them.

"Looks like we're in the right place," Warrick said, cautiously placing a hand on the handle to open the SUV's door. Nick held up his hand to stop his partner.

"I don't like this; he's armed. No telling what he might do." He said, and pulled his gun, opening his own door and stepping from the vehicle.

"Put down your weapon, sir!" he commanded, his voice echoing in the still night air.

Ahead, the assailant laid his shotgun on the ground, and threw his hands in the air to signal his surrender. Warrick walked slowly forward, kicking the gun away as he approached the man. Nick followed, careful to keep his gun steady as Warrick moved forward. The man was frantic, his facial features twisted in horror and panic.

"My wife," he sobbed, pointing behind him toward the house. "I think she's dead!" he explained in a trembling voice.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down," Nick said, keeping his tone low. His gun felt heavy and comfortable in his grip, and he slowly lowered his weapon as the man breathed deeply, trying to stem his panic. Gesturing to the house again, he sobbed,

"Please help me."

Preceeding Nick into the house, Warrick eyed the large chocolate lab that was pacing nervously from the kitchen to the living room and back again. The kitchen was neat and orderly; spotless and clean. Warrick could hear Nick's footsteps behind him as he stepped through the large doorway separating the two rooms. Inhaling sharply, the CSI stared at the body sprawled in the middle of the floor. Dark red blood covered the woman from head to toe, her face frozen with the horror she had experienced in her final moments alive.

"Oh, my god," Warrick whispered, and looked at Nick in shock. Nick shook his head and the two men approached the body together. Squatting down, Warrick studied the corpse. The victim had suffered numerous stab wounds to the face, neck, torso and hands, and her white nightgown was soaked with still-warm blood. Her blonde hair was stained a deep rust colour, and her blue, unseeing eyes stared back at the CSI techs, begging them silently to help her. Nick opened his field kit and snapped on a pair of yellow latex exam gloves. Warrick did the same as he, too, studied the crime scene. The carpeting beneath the victim was a mixture of orange and brown, and a fiber stuck to the blood on the woman's face. Carefully, Warrick grasped it with a pair of forceps and slid it into a plastic evidence bag. Outside, two members of the Las Vegas police department were questioning the man who had met them in the driveway.

"She didn't stand a chance," Nick said, as he studied the stab wounds. Pointing to the angry slash across the victim's neck, he spoke again.

"That was probably the fatal wound; I'm guessing it severed both carotids."

Warrick nodded. "Want to bet on it?" He asked, and took a picture of the woman's hand. Large, gaping wounds criss-crossed the palm, and the bones of the index finger could be seen through the flesh.

"She fought her attacker, that's for sure," he said, snapping off another photo. Focusing the camera's lens on her neck, Warrick depressed the red button twice, making sure he got a picture from two angles: straight on and close up. Nick shook his head sadly.

"There's got to be thirty stab wounds," he guessed, and silently counted the ones visible through the flimsy, shredded cotton gown. Footsteps behind them caused both men to turn away from the grisly scene before them. A uniformed officer walked toward them. Nick pointed a finger in warning.

"Don't come in here; there's evidence all over this room," he barked, and the cop stopped at the doorway.

"That's the homeowner out there." He indicated the body on the floor. "That's his wife, and" he paused, swallowing bile as he saw the extent of the woman's wounds. He hated these types of calls, and wished to God he was off tonight. Gesturing toward the hall, he tried to ignore his queasiness.

"The husband says there are kids here, too."

At his words, Nick jumped to his feet.

"Did he check them?" he asked, and the cop shook his head.

"No; said he was panicking and called 911 immediately. The dispatcher told him to get out of the house; he didn't have time to check on them."

Warrick frowned. "That's weird. A parent comes home to find his wife murdered, and doesn't go check on the kids?"

Nick frowned. "No way, man." He said, and carefully stepping around the body, walked down the darkened hallway. Stopping at the first door, Nick turned the knob carefully. Pushing the door open, he could see by the dim glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall, two beds with still, small forms under the covers. Quietly, he approached the first bed, and stared down at the child. The girl lay undisturbed, and there was no blood evident anywhere around her. Checking the other girl, Nick could see that neither child had been attacked. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped back out of the room and shut the door. Walking back to the living room, he motioned for the cop to join him.

"The two children in that room are okay; I want you to stand out here while I check the rest of the house; if they happen to wake up," he glanced back toward the living room before finishing, "don't let them go out there."

Walking to the next bedroom, Nick could see that the door was slightly ajar. Holding his breath, he slowly entered the room. It was completely dark, and Nick pulled his flashlight from his vest and aimed it at the floor before switching it on. Raising it, he trained the beam on the single twin bed in against the far wall. A boy of about eight lay sprawled on his stomach, and Nick's heart leapt into his throat at the sight of the red patches on the boy's pajama top. Moving closer, he was relieved to see that the stains were not blood, but pictures of the cartoon character Clifford the Big Red Dog printed on the flannel material. The boy was sleeping peacefully, and as Nick watched, the child suddenly flung his arm out to the side in his sleep, dangling his hand over the edge of the mattress. Realizing he'd been holding his breath ever since he entered the room, Nick exhaled, feeling his burning lungs deflating as they expelled the air trapped in them. Something caught his eye, and Nick looked to see an electrical socket, missing its cover, beside the boy's bed. He would take pictures in a moment; right now, they needed to get the children out of the house. Turning, Nick walked from the room, and pulled the door ajar again. Giving the waiting cop the thumbs up, Nick entered the next bedroom. The door was open, and light from a lamp on the end table glowed softly, throwing shadows about the large master bedroom. A queen-sized bed, its covers turned back, sat against one wall, and a doorway to the left led to the bathroom. Stepping quietly, Nick scanned the room for any evidence. A romance novel lay face-up on the end table, and a large bouquet of flowers scented the room from their place on the dresser. Seeing nothing, Nick was walking to the bathroom when something over the bed caught his eye. Stopping, he leaned over, examining the display on the wall. It was a simple wooden stand, designed to display a large knife. A brass nameplate on the base of the stand indicated that an exact replica of a Bowie knife was supposed to be in the holder. But the knife was missing.

Stepping back into the hallway, Nick signaled for the officer to call Warrick. The other CSI appeared at the doorway leading to the living room.

"Give me your camera," Nick stage-whispered, and Warrick nodded, handing the camera off to the cop who carried it to Nick.

Returning to the bedroom, Nick took several photographs of the empty Bowie knife display, taking care to make sure he got a shot of the name plate. Nick quickly checked the remainder of the house, consisting of another bedroom a second bathroom and two storage closets, before rejoining Warrick in the living room.

"There are three kids back there," he said, and Warrick raised an eyebrow.

"They okay?" he asked cautiously, and Nick nodded.

"Sleeping like babies; I don't think they heard a thing." He looked around the room, seeing a door leading from the living room to the backyard.

"There's no way to get them out without bringing them through here," he surmised, and Warrick shook his head in alarm.

"They can't see this," he warned, and Nick nodded.

"I know; we've got to make sure we get them out fast, though." He said, suddenly remembering the linen closet in the master bathroom.

"I've got an idea," he said, and radioed for a second police officer to enter the house.

**Chapter 2**

Nick and Officer Jackson worked quietly; there was no need to startle the children. Entering the girls' bedroom first, Nick approached the nearest bed, and squatted beside the girl's head. Gently, he reached out and touched her on the shoulder. The girl, a petite waif of about six, slowly opened her eyes, and looked in confusion at the strange man sitting beside her bed.

"Hey, I'm Nick," Nick said, and the little girl nodded her head, fear in her pretty blue eyes. Nick smiled; he had to make it seem as though there was nothing wrong; that the crime scene in the living room didn't exist.

"What's your name?" he asked, smiling at the curly-haired child.

"Rebecca," the girl whispered; her wide eyes curious and trusting. Nick grinned.

"That's a pretty name, Rebecca," he said and added, "I'm a cop, and I need you to do me a huge favour," he said, and the girl nodded. Just then, the second girl rolled over, sleepily whispering to her sister;

"Becca," she hissed, "shut up!" Nick looked at Rebecca's sister and was relieved to see the girl was still asleep. Turning back to Rebecca, he asked,

"How old are you, Becca?" The young girl held up six fingers in front of her. Nick nodded. "How old is your sister?" he asked, and again Becca held up her fingers, this time all ten.

"Okay," Nick whispered, and nodded at Jackson. "I want you to dress up as a ghost for me, and then my friend here is going to take you outside, okay?" he asked, trying to keep his tone friendly. Rebecca shrugged.

"Why?" she asked in the innocence of childhood.

Nick hated to lie, but in his line of work, sometimes stretching the truth was necessary.

"Your dad wants us to show you the police station," he said, thinking quickly. At that, the little girl clapped her hands together in excitement. Nick took the white bed sheet that the cop held out toward him, and very gently draped it over Rebecca's head. Then, he carefully picked the small child up and handed her off to Jackson, who slipped quietly out the door. Looking over to the second girl, Nick picked up the other bed sheet Jackson had brought him and walked toward the bed. Repeating the process he had with Rebecca, Nick touched the second girl on the shoulder. He was surprised when she sat bolt-upright in bed, and scuttled to the head of the bed against the headboard.

"Whoa, honey," Nick soothed, and watched the fear leave the girl's eyes, this time a clear shade of green.

"Who are you?" she asked, and Nick pointed to his badge.

"Nick Stokes," He whispered, "I'm with the police department. What's your name?" he asked, squatting beside the girl. The child looked around the room, squinting painfully against the bright light.

"Jada Emily Holden," she said, stating her full name as if she did it all the time. Nick smiled.

"That's a pretty name, Jada," he said, and the girl returned his smile, blushing slightly. Giving her the same story he had her sister, Nick was soon draping a powder-blue bed-sheet over her head. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her down the hallway and through the living room, catching Warrick's eye as he passed. His partner nodded grimly as he swabbed blood from the victim's pink house-shoe lying near the blood-spattered sofa.

After leaving Jada with her sister and father, Nick returned to the house and made his way to the boy's room. One more to go and they'd have all the children outside safely. Officer Jackson followed behind him, retrieving a third sheet from where he'd laid it on the floor outside the boy's room. When Nick flipped on the light, the youngster rose slowly to a sitting position, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fists. Feeling like he was rehearsing for a twisted part in a play, Nick went through his recital again; why he was there, who he was and everything; word for word as he had twice before.

"What's your name?" he asked, and the boy squinted up at him.

"Saxon," he said, and Nick nodded.

"That's a cool name," Nick said, and added, "I wish I had a cool name like that." Saxon nodded but said nothing.

Actually, Nick liked his name just fine; but he had seen doubts in the boy's eyes, and knew he'd better develop a rapport with him, and quick. At the mention of touring the police station, Saxon's reserve diminished, and he allowed Nick to pick him up and carry him to the safety of his family outside.

Back at the crime lab, Gil Grissom was studying a plaster cast of bite impressions taken from a rape victim when Catherine Willows walked in, tapping on his office door as she stepped inside. Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"We've been called out to Green Manor Stables," she informed him, and Grissom frowned.

"Now?" he asked, and then, "what's up?"

Catherine read her notes from a slip of paper she held in her hand.

"Some sort of accident; a trainer got trampled by a horse," she said, and Grissom frowned.

"You sure it's not on a plane?" he asked, referring to a case they'd worked in which a veterinarian had been trampled in-flight by a horse stalled in the cargo hold of a commercial airliner. Catherine shook hear head, blond hair swinging above her shoulders.

"Nope; the address is definitely on the ground this time." She smiled, her brown eyes meeting Grissom's.

"I'm going with you; I need some diversion."

Deciding not to ask, Grissom grabbed his field kit and followed his colleague out the door.

Located just ten miles north of the city, Green Manour stables was a sprawling estate that encompassed several hundred acres. Hailed as one of the biggest racing stables in Nevada, Green Manour was home to dozens of elegant, expensive Thoroughbred race horses. As Grissom pulled up the winding driveway, a small figure in green and white silks raced up to the SUV. Waving his arms wildly, the man signaled for Grissom to roll his window down.

"He's at the track," the man said, "follow me." Hopping on a red dirt bike, he sped off.

Looking sideways at Catherine who shrugged in response, Grissom followed the man as he rode down the driveway and on past the main house toward the stables out back. Catherine frowned.

"Its eleven pm," she observed, checking her watch. "Are they training in the dark?" she asked as Grissom came to a stop behind the man on the motorcycle as he pulled up parallel to the curved white rail that ringed the small practice track.

"Maybe they can't sleep," he quipped, and exited the truck. Approaching the scene, Grissom and Catherine observed a small crowd standing around a prone man in the middle of the dirt track. Nearby, a tall slender man was hanging doggedly onto the halter of a dancing, nervous black horse, while a petite dark-haired woman soothed a second chestnut horse a short distance away. Grissom gazed at the animals, but said nothing.

Catherine reached the body, asking the small group of people to step away. Looking down, she was shocked to see that the victim was incomplete. Only the top part of the body, from the waist up, was present. A dark pool of blood had gathered beneath the torso, and Catherine deduced that most of the man's blood had exsanguinated from the large gaping wound that used to be the belly and hips. The man's arms were flung straight back behind his head, as if he had been holding them up in the air when he'd been struck by the galloping horse. His face, round and chubby, was smudged with dirt, and a gaping, C-shaped wound was gouged into the side of his head. Hearing Grissom approach, Catherine turned just as he spied the body. Frowning, he asked,

"Where's the rest of him?"

Catherine looked over her shoulder to the small group of people who'd been standing around the body.

"I don't know," she said, adding, "but maybe someone can help us find it."

Grissom squatted beside her and studied the hole in the victim's skull. Finally, he looked over at Catherine.

"You know what they say," he deadpanned, "two halves make a hole".

**Chapter 3**

Albert Robbins stood over the body laid out before him on the steel autopsy table. After the paramedics had brought her in, Dr. Robbins had done a preliminary autopsy before washing the body. As the bloody water swirled down the drain, the coroner had counted thirty-six stab wounds on the woman's torso. The number of wounds indicated a personal element in the attack; indicated that the victim knew her attacker. Now as he made the standard Y-shaped incision, Dr. Robbins carefully dissected back the skin and observed the nicks to the ribs and intercostal cartilage. There were very few wounds that didn't penetrate through the chest cavity; either between the ribs, or slicing through the soft cartilage. As he reached for the bone saw to cut through the rib cage, Dr. Robbins heard the doors leading into the hallway open. Looking up, he saw Nick and Warrick walking toward him.

"Hey doc," Warrick greeted, placing his hands on his hips as he stared down at the body on the table; "have you determined COD yet?"

Dr. Robbins looked over his reading glasses at the two CSI agents.

"Did you two place a bet?" he asked, knowing the guys' penchant for trying to get the better of each other. Nick shrugged uncomfortably.

"Not this time," he said, and the doctor nodded.

"Any of you care to guess what killed Mrs. Holden here?" he asked, and Nick scratched his head.

"The cut to her throat, I say." He guessed, and Warrick nodded in agreement. Dr. Robbins smiled approvingly.

"Good assessment, Nick. You're right; both arteries were severed, and she no doubt was dead within a minute. The rest of the wounds are just collateral damage."

Warrick frowned as he peered closely at the woman's open, dead eyes.

"Petichial hemorrhaging to the eyes indicates suffocation. Whoever did this must have tried to smother her first, and then began stabbing."

Nick frowned. "But why?" he asked. "If you're going to stab someone, why mess with suffocating them first?" he shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

Warrick looked at his friend.

"When does murdering someone ever make sense?" he asked, and then looked at Robbins.

"I hear Grissom is bringing you a body in pieces."

Robbins laughed. "So I hear. This ought to be a very interesting night.

Leaving the doctor to his work, Warrick and Nick left the autopsy room, and headed to the lab. Greg Sanders had been given the blood and fiber samples from the woman's home; hopefully, he'd found something that would help to pin down the murderer.

Grissom had left Catherine photographing the partial body of Norm Peters. Walking over to the group of people standing on the sidelines, he pointed toward the nervous black Thoroughbred.

"Is that the horse that ran over Mr. Peters?" he asked, and the young man that had met them at the driveway stepped forward.

"That's him; 'Desert Mist'." He said, looking nervously from the horse to the trainer's body on the track. Grissom frowned.

"Were the horses running against each other?" he asked, and the man nodded.

"Desert Mist doesn't exercise well by himself," he said, pointing to the chestnut behind him as he continued, "so we have 'Generous Clause' here run with him. Keeps him company," he explained, and Grissom nodded.

"I need to look at both of them," he said, and the man frowned.

"Why?" he asked in confusion and Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"Because, they're witnesses," he said simply, and walked toward Desert Mist. At his approach, the all-ready nervous animal became even more agitated, throwing his head and nearly knocking his handler to the ground. The man managed to keep his feet, and threw Grissom a look over his shoulder as he tried to calm the massive racehorse.

"Stand back," he warned, and Grissom slowed his pace, stopping six feet from the horse.

"I need to talk to him," he said, and the handler shook his head.

"He doesn't do well with strangers; stay away." The horse pawed the ground restlessly, his well-shod hooves throwing clods of dirt into the air. Grissom walked slowly, ignoring the protestations of the tall man, until he was within a yard of the horse. Carefully, he looked the animal over, watching the muscles ripple and bunch under the ebony hide. His attention was drawn to the horse's right rear foot. Squatting, Grissom stared hard at the substance on the toe. Looking back over to where Catherine was processing the torso, Grissom thought out his next move. Finally he stood, and directed a level gaze at the horse's handler.

"I hope Desert Mist likes rides," he said, and the handler frowned.

"What? Why?"

"Because," Gill said, "I need him for evidence." The man's face paled.

"This is a twenty-thousand dollar animal, sir. I can't just let you take him off the premises," he said, incredulous.

Grissom shrugged. "You can when I get a warrant." He said, and walked away.

Catherine was walking carefully along the length of the racetrack when Grissom rejoined her. Scanning the ground, she was looking for evidence that might lead them to the other half of Norm Peters. Halfway around the track, Catherine spied something in the shrubbery that was planted along the inside rail.

"Do you think that's our body?" she asked, and Grissom cut behind her to squat down beside the hedge. Shining his flashlight beneath the shrub, he discovered a pair of grey snake-skin boots. Disembodied legs sprouted from the tops of the boots, and the steel grey pants were spattered with blood.

"Catherine," he intoned, and she glanced at him as he gazed steadily at the trunk, "I believe Mr. Peters would like these back."

The lobby of the crime lab was still quiet as Kara Fithen began her morning work. Cup of coffee in hand, she sifted through the mail as she listened to the messages left on the machine after hours the day before. Hearing footsteps, she looked up to see Nick Stokes walking down the tile hallway, file folder in hand. The young brunette smiled, her eyes lighting as she watched the cop come closer. He was handsome, she thought, and the prospect of going on a date with him later that evening was something she had looked forward to all week. Now, Nick stopped at her desk and smiled his dazzling smile.

"Hi Kara," he greeted, "any messages for me?"

Kara shook her head. "I've not had a chance to listen to them yet, but if there is, I'll let you know. Nick nodded.

"I'm expecting Joyce and Ted Holden to come in today; asked them to come in so I could ask them some questions. Would you let me know when they come in?" he asked, and Kara nodded.

"The minute they sign in, I'll page you." She said, and frowned.

"Do you think they had anything to do with that poor woman's death last night?" She asked. The murder had been all over the morning news, and Nick wasn't surprised a bit. The media were like vultures, pouncing on any piece of news and sensationalizing it ad nauseum.

"I don't know if they do or not," he said, "but I questioned Macy Holden's husband James last night and he seemed a little hinky. I wanted to ask them about him." He looked around to make sure they were alone, and then leaned closer.

"Tonight," he whispered, "let's talk about something else." Kara felt her cheeks colour, and couldn't take her eyes from his.

"Sounds good," she answered simply, and Nick winked.

"I'll see you about six," he said, and turned, whistling as he walked back down the hall. Kara felt a thrill of excitement rush through her veins. Nick was without a doubt very attractive, and the thought that he actually wanted to take her out had come as a pleasant surprise. With the song Nick had been humming floating around in her head, Kara resumed her work.

Joyce and Ted Holden sat side by side at the table in the interrogation room. Nick watched them through the one-way glass of the observation window as he waited for Warrick to arrive before entering the observation room. As he watched, Joyce Holden's chin began to tremble, and Ted pulled her close in an embrace. This was one of the hard parts of his job, Nick thought, having to grill family members before they could even come to grips with the death of a loved one. It was his job, though, and Nick knew he was good at it.

Warrick entered the observation room, and held up the file folders.  
"Let's get this over with," Nick said, and Warrick opened the door to the interrogation room.

The Holden's looked up as the two CSIs entered the room. Joyce dabbed tears from her eyes with a napkin, and Ted's face was drawn with grief. After offering them a cup of coffee, Nick got down to business.

"Mr. Holden," he began, "how would you describe your daughter's relationship with James?" The man shrugged.

"They seemed happy; James was always so good to her. I can't see him doing anything to hurt her. Are you suggesting he killed her?"  
Nick shook his head. "We have to look at all angles," he said, and Warrick cut in.

"Does James have a temper? Did Macy ever say anything indicating they argued or disagreed on things?" he asked, and both parents shook their heads. Joyce sighed.

"I've seen him upset, but never terribly angry," she said, and Nick frowned.

"What would he get upset about?" he asked, and Ted shrugged.

"The usual; sometimes their finances weren't too stable, but never bad. James provided very well for her and the children."

"How did he feel about the children?" Nick asked, and Joyce rolled her eyes.

"James loved those kids; they were his babies. Macy and he were planning another some time in the future." She smiled weakly at her husband.

Warrick frowned. "If he loved his children so much, don't you think it's strange that he didn't check on them last night after he found his wife?"

Ted stood up angrily, pushing the chair out with a screech.

"This is insane; my daughter is dead, and you're worried about her husband? Get out there and find the person who did this, and leave my family alone." With that, he stormed out of the room. Joyce looked from Warrick to Nick.

"This is so hard on him," she began, "you'll have to excuse him." The agents nodded.

"That's understood. I know we're asking painful questions, but its part of our job." Mrs. Holden smiled a sad smile.

"Sometimes, the questions need asking. I don't resent you and my husband will come around. I do have to tell you though," she looked toward the hall, to make sure Ted wasn't coming back in. Nick and Warrick exchanged glances.

"Macy mentioned that James has been acting strange lately."

Warrick frowned. "Strange how?" he asked, and Joyce shrugged.

"There's some money taken out of their account that she can't find. Then he got angry at her for coming to the office last week." Nick poised his pencil over his notes.

"Where does James work, Mrs. Holden?" he asked, and Joyce answered,

"He's a real-estate agent," she said, giving him the address of the company. Thanking Mrs. Holden, Nick and Warrick told her she was free to go.

After she disappeared around the corner, Nick tapped Warrick on the arm with the files.

"Lets get to the travel agency; see if there's anything fishy going on," he said, and they walked out the door.

**Chapter 4**

Desert Mist pawed nervously at the straw in his stall at the Vet clinic. Grissom waited until the veterinarian got the large animal under control before he slowly approached. Squatting, he looked again at the horse's hooves. A dark substance stained one of the back feet, and Grissom swabbed it carefully with a cotton-tipped stick, taking care not to move too quickly. Catherine was watching behind him, and took the swab from him, dripping luminol onto the swab. She watched as it turned bright purple. She looked at Grissom.

"Blood," she said simply, dropping the swab into a plastic evidence bag. Grissom didn't respond; instead, he was studying marks along the horse's legs and sides. In several places, the gleaming black hair was marred, in others, missing. He frowned. Something was not right. Looking up at the thin man who had been handling the horse, he asked,

"Did you say you were exercising this horse tonight?" He asked, and the man nodded.

"It's been so hot that we have waited until after sundown for evening workouts." He seemed uncomfortable. Grissom nodded.

"Usually, a saddle is needed for that, am I correct?" He asked, and the man, Devon Schooler, nodded.

"Of course," he said, and shuffled his feet. Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"But these horses weren't saddled when we arrived," he said, and Devon shrugged.  
"So? We pull their tack off as soon as they're done exercising; helps them to cool off faster."

Exiting the stall, Grissom walked to the adjoining stall and quietly entered it, smiling as the gleaming chestnut horse nuzzled his arm curiously. He turned to Devon.

"Generous Clause, right?" he asked, and Devon nodded. Grissom continued his examination, and noticed the same strange abrasions on Generous Clause as he had noticed on Desert Mist. Patting the horse's neck, he whispered,

"Do you want to tell me anything?" The horse was watching him through large liquid eyes. Grissom glanced up at him and noticed something stuck in the horse's halter ring. Frowning, Grissom pulled his forceps out, and grasped at the small fiber. Holding it up to the light, he could see that it was tightly woven and the ends were frayed. The fraying could have been caused from being caught in the halter ring, but Grissom couldn't be sure. Walking around the horse, he noticed large dark splotches on the horse's hindquarters. Looking back at Devon, he noticed the groom look quickly away, sweating and nervous.

Greg knocked on the door frame of the evidence room. Nick looked up from his analysis of the fingerprints found on the knife display in the Holman's bedroom. Greg grinned.

"Guess what?" he asked, and Nick shrugged.

"You're running away to be a Rockette?" he asked, and Greg pointed at him.

"No; not yet," he joked, and Nick grinned before looking again at the fingerprints.

"What have you got?" he asked, and Greg handed him a file folder.

"I found semen on Macy Holden," he said, and Nick looked at him curiously.

"So are you telling me that she and James Holden had sex before he killed her?"

Greg shook his head.

"Someone in that house was having sex, and it wasn't just Mr. and Mrs. Holden," he said. Nick walked toward Greg and took the file, scanning it. Greg continued,

"The condom you found in the trash can?" he prompted, and Nick nodded.

"What about it?" he asked. Greg grinned.

"Mr. Harmon's DNA was on it, but also an unknown donor." Nick's head snapped up.

"You're kidding me," he said incredulously. Greg shook his head.

"Nope," he replied, and raised an eyebrow. "Looks like both Mr. and Mrs. Holden had other, shall we say, interests." Nick searched through the file, noting that the unknown donors were not listed. He looked up at Greg.

"Did you run this through AFIS, see if we can come up with a match?" he asked, and Greg shook his head.

"I thought you might want to be there when I do," he explained, and Nick nodded.

"Yeah; I do. Let's see if we can find out they were with before Mrs. Holden died." Closing the file, Nick followed Greg to the DNA lab.

In the large tack room of Green Manour Stables, Grissom and Catherine began the process of examining all the exercise saddles and bridles for signs of recent use. Holding her flashlight securely in her left hand, Catherine flipped up the edge of a thin cotton racing blanket.  
"What exactly are we looking for?" she asked, and Grissom glanced sideways at her.

"Sweat, residual body heat, or blood;" he replied, and pulled up the flap on a racing saddle. Something caught his eye, and he looked closer. Caught on the D-ring that connected the girth to the tiny saddle, was another piece of the type of fiber he had found in the halter ring of Generous Clause. Carefully, Grissom grasped it with his forceps and placed it into an evidence bag.

Nearly two hours later, the CSIs stood in the tack room, staring in confusion at the miscellaneous pieces of tack around them. Grissom frowned.

"If a horse was exercised, wouldn't he sweat?" he asked, and Catherine shrugged.

"I would think so, but I've not found any indication of moisture anywhere; not on the saddle pads, or the girths-" she trailed off as Grissom raised his hand.

"I found a piece of fiber on Desert Mist's saddle. It's the same type as on the other horse's halter." He looked around, and spied a white rope barely visible behind an un-opened package of racing bandages. Carefully, Grissom pulled the package away, and grasped the tangle of rope behind it. Pulling it forward, he was mildly surprised to see that the white nylon material was stained with blood evidence. Pulling the rope apart carefully, he found fresh, red blood hidden in the coils of the rope. Where the rope had been bunched against itself, air hadn't been able to reach the blood, and it was still sticky to the touch.

"Catherine," Grissom said, "I think I just found the murder weapon."

Grissom watched as Dr. Robbins carefully drew his scalpel along Norm Peter's chest, forming the second half of the traditional 'Y' incision used in autopsy. He didn't have to slice very far; Peter's body had been brutally ripped in half just above the waist. The jagged, broken edges of the lower lumbar vertebrae jutted out from the torso, and glistened whitely in the glare of the overhead lights. Dr. Robbins looked at Grissom.

"I don't think I've seen anything like this," he said, and Grissom frowned.

"Like what?" he asked and the Doctor indicated the torso, and glanced to the next table, where the bottom half lay waiting.

"A body torn completely in two," he said, and pointed to the shoulders. "The shoulders are dislocated, and there are abrasions on the wrists. I also noticed abrasions, dislocation, fractures, and bruising to the ankles, as well as the wrists and shoulders. The hips are dislocated, too. All this I can see without making a single cut."

Gill Grissom looked sharply to the doctor.

"Are you thinking what I am?" he asked, and Robbins nodded.

"This man was drawn and quartered. A very painful death usually, but the blow to his head is probably what killed him." He indicated the bloody dent in the skull.

Crescent shaped laceration to the skull indicating blunt force trauma with something heavy. The skull was shattered with the blow, and bone fragments driven into the brain." Suddenly, Grissom remembered Desert Mist. He snapped his fingers.

"There was blood evidence on one of the horses' hind feet." He traced the skull wound with a gloved finger. "Hooves are crescent shaped. This man was kicked in the head during the murder." Robbins shook his head.

"It never ceases to amaze me how cruel people can be," he commented, and Grissom sighed.

"Man's inhumanity to man, Albert. Unfortunately, it's a reality."

James Holden's palms were clammy and sweaty. He sat in the small interrogation room, waiting for Captain Jim Brass, and the two crime scene investigators that had processed his wife's crime scene the night before. The door knob turned, and the three men walked in, and closed the interrogation room's door behind them. Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown sat at the table opposite James, but Captain Brass stood at the end of the metal table. Nick opened the case file, and James could see his wife's autopsy picture attached with a paper clip to the papers beneath it.

"Let's get right to it," Brass began, clearing his throat. James felt his stomach clench as his nervousness increased.

"Where were you last night when your wife was killed?" Brass asked, pacing from the table to the door and back again. James swallowed hard.

"I was out; out to get some stuff she needed from the store," he explained, and Brass rolled his eyes. He was a tough cop, having come from Brooklyn, New York, where he'd seen it all, and heard it all. He definitely wasn't in the mood to play games.

"What did you buy?" he asked, and James frowned.

"Bread, milk and feminine hygiene products," he said and shrugged. "Her time of the month, you know," he explained, and Nick shook his head.

"Autopsy didn't prove that out," he said and James shrugged.

"So?" he asked, and spread his hands. "Maybe she was stocking up." He hazarded, and Brass laughed.

"You just told us she needed them." He leaned closer, and James looked away.

"Tell us the truth. Did she find out about your affair? Is that why you killed her?" he pressed, and James' head snapped up.

"I love my wife. I'm not cheating on her," he said adamantly, and Warrick spoke up.

"We found a condom with your DNA on it, but the female DNA was not your wife's." he said, and James became agitated.

"She was the one messing around on me!" he said emphatically, and looked to Brass.

"I knew she was, but I loved her, and we were working it out." He said, and rubbed his eyes. Nick looked evenly at James, and spoke quietly.

"Your idea of working it out was to kill her?" he asked, and James shook his head.

"No!" he said again, and stood. Brass firmly pressed him back into his chair.

"Sit down, you bastard." He instructed, and looked at Nick. "Show this joker what you found in his son's room," he said, and Nick pulled a second picture from the folder, sliding it across the table. James blanched at the picture of the bloody bowie knife. Warrick sighed.

"We found this in the wall of Saxon's room," he explained coolly, continuing,

"You thought we wouldn't notice the missing electrical cover beside Saxon's bed. You removed the socket, slipped the knife in behind the housing, and replaced it. Only problem is, you didn't put the face-plate back on."

James was sweating; he knew he was busted, but still tried to get out of it.

"It never had a cover. I lost it when I re-wired the house," he stated and Brass shook his head.

"Your fingerprints were all over it," he explained, and added, "the face-plate wasn't lost. In your haste, you applied too much pressure, and snapped it in half when you were replacing it." He grinned, knowing they had their killer. "You were too stupid to hide it, and threw it away in the bathroom trash. You could've at least made it harder for us; at least thrown it in a dumpster. But I guess you weren't thinking too clearly, after murdering your wife, were you?" he goaded, and James began to cry. Brass couldn't resist another jab. "Your son's name is Saxon; that's Celtic for knife, or sword; Pretty crafty, Mr. Holden." Warrick and Nick looked at each other, and then Warrick motioned for an officer to come in and take James Holden to jail.

Grissom sat across from Devon Schooler, the groom for Green Manour.

"We finished our investigation," he informed the man, and watched as the suspect raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah?" He asked with false enthusiasm. Catherine crossed her legs and shifted in her chair.  
"That was a unique way to do it," she said, and Devon frowned, not following.

"What was?" he asked, but Grissom spoke again.

"Mr. Peters was about to fire you, wasn't he?" he asked, and when Devon didn't answer, he continued,

"We checked your employment history and telephone records. You were about to make some big money, selling Desert Mist on the black market. Once you got him into Mexico, you'd be home free. But that didn't work; Norm found you out, and was ready to let you go." He looked directly at the groom.

"So you think I did it?" he asked, and Catherine brushed her hair back from her forehead with a manicured fingertip.

"We found yacht cording hidden in the tack shed," she said. "The blood on it matched Norm Peters, and the epithelials matched you," she said and rifled through the papers in the file in front of her.

"You've had prior convictions for assault, and making threats against your former employer in California. Your DNA was already on record, and it proves you're the killer." She explained, and Grissom picked up from there.

"Using the excuse of exercising Desert Mist and Generous Clause, you tied Mr. Peters hand and foot to the horses, and killed him by drawing and quartering him. Since Desert Mist is more valuable than Generous Clause, and more flighty, you rode him to keep him from panicking and maybe running off. Fiber from the rope you used was caught in Desert Mist's saddle." He paused, allowing the groom to digest the information. Catherine continued.

"When Desert Mist took off, he kicked Mr. Peter's head, and got blood on his hoof. Generous Clause had Norm's feet tied to his halter, and he took off in the opposite direction. Whip marks on his flanks indicate that he was hit from behind, to make sure he ran where you wanted him to."

Devon was shaking his head and looked wildly from Grissom to Catherine.

"Green Manour stables treat their horses better than the employees. No one would have whipped any of the horses." He said, and met Grissom's stare. "I didn't do it," he said, and Grissom smiled.

"We received an anonymous tip that you bragged about wanting to draw and quarter your employer," he said, and added, "you did a hell of a job of it, by the way."


End file.
